Dropped Names

by Frank Langella

  For the remaining hour or more of the ceremony, Elizabeth would be handed a phone to take calls from, it seemed, an hysterical woman, locked in a family crisis. She soothed and calmed and said clearly,

  “Put him on.”

  Then came a five-minute stream of full-voiced vitriol from a male voice, threatening and hateful. Elizabeth sat looking at her nails, sipping Red Bull, and listening. And at one point saying in a voice of deep and lethal surety:

  “Oh, no, you won’t.”

  The voice shouted something like:

  “Yes, I will!”

  And again Elizabeth said calmly:

  “No, you won’t. Because I control the money.”

  She then hung up, turned to me, and said: “Have you had anything to eat, baby?”

  Somebody won something and the TV was turned off. Elizabeth remained in her seat, a plate on her lap, as the guests moved around and past her to the front door. She acknowledged no one’s presence but mine, and in less than five minutes we were alone in the living room as people were clearing the buffet table in the dining room. José left after double kisses to us both. No doubt he would be relieved to go home, doff the cowboy hat, and kick off his boots.

  Elizabeth and I sat and talked and once more I had a wonderful time with her. She was very funny about some of the people who had crossed the screen, totally unaware of any of the films or actors nominated and amusedly resigned to her family drama.

  It was close to 1 a.m.

  “I better go.”

  “Would you like to see the house?”

  “Okay.”

  A brief tour ending in a walk toward the stairway, her hand tightly in mine.

  “Come on up, baby, and put me to sleep.”

  She grabbed hold of the caftan and preceded me up the steps in bare feet; her slippers left by her chair in the living room. With each step she grew more and more hysterical, tripping on her hem, reaching for the banister, and, at one point, leaning forward and placing her hands on the steps in front of her.

  “Oh baby, I’m not gonna make it,” she said, howling in mock agony, like a woman trying to climb an icy hill and continuing to slide backward.

  “Yes, you can,” I said, placing both my hands on her fulsome cheeks and pushing. She dissolved in laughter, managed two or three steps, and collapsed on the landing. And we sat there while she caught her breath. A happy, giggly little girl.

  “Come on in, baby.”

  Round 4—Elizabeth.

  Down a hallway, first into her bathroom, where she removed her jewelry and dropped it on a mirrored tray. The room was all girl and, it would seem, open for business. On every surface bowls of everything from Q-tips to cotton balls, to eyebrow pencils to emery boards—not a dozen, not two dozen of anything but seemingly hundreds. The cabinet doors were opened and there, neatly lined, in rows three deep, were large bottles of witch hazel. Dozens and dozens of bottles of witch hazel—a supply not possible to exhaust in her lifetime. When I asked her why she had so much, she said:

  “It’s in my contract.”

  “You’ll never ever use it all,” I said.

  “Baby. It’s in my contract.”

  There were giant closets filled to the brim. Shoes, bags, scarves, hats, jewelry, gowns, dresses, caftans, belts all in overflow. Create a movie set of a movie star bathroom like this and the designer would be accused of parody.

  Then into the bedroom. Not quite Norma Desmond, but certainly not without its air of yesterday. Brightly lit, feminine colors, smelling heavily of her trademark perfume; not immense, but spacious enough and inviting. There were a few items of clothing tossed on a chair and on the floor next to the bed, a nightdress.

  The bed itself was unmade and crowded. At its foot another large television. Across it, a hospital-like table on wheels that could be raised, lowered, or pushed aside. On it stood a famous photo of Elizabeth, Mike Todd, and their baby. Next to it, another of her and Richard Burton. And on the bed, a large box of open chocolates, picked through and half-eaten. Magazines, a remote, nail files, prescription bottles. She poured herself a glass of water, took two pills, dropped the caftan, slipped on the nightdress, and climbed in. Turning on her side and curling up spoon fashion, she put her hand out behind her and said:

  “Stay a little while baby.”

  I took her hand and sat on the bed. Her eyes were closed, her black hair smashed against the pillows, and her deep red lips slightly smudged.

  “Shall I turn out the lights?”

  “You’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you kiss me good night?”

  Her face was turned away from mine. As she began to move it toward me, I leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “Good night.”

  “Oh baby, I left my slippers downstairs. Would you get them for me please?” I did, lingered for a while, then climbed the stairs and placed them by her bed. When I leaned over and said good night again, she turned her face fully to me and looked up.

  “Will you call me tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not in the morning, baby. I don’t see a lot of mornings.”

  I kissed her forehead, smoothed her hair off her face, pulled the covers up over her, and left her to sleep. Then I said good night to a bodyguard standing in the driveway and drove home.

  Round 5—Frank.

  I did not call her the next day. If for no other reason than I was up and out long before she would reach consciousness and because I knew that a relationship with Elizabeth Taylor was quicksand. And there wasn’t going to be anybody standing by with a tree branch to pull me out. I determined that I would not be seduced and commanded. I was going to throw in the towel and step out of the ring.

  Our mutual friend called a few days later.

  “Why haven’t you called Elizabeth? She’s hurt.”

  “I will. I’m working.”

  “Well, call her. Just to say hello. She’s lonely. But not before one p.m.”

  I did. We connected on the phone. She was sweet, saucy, and shrewd.

  “Did you get a good deal on your movie?”

  “We’re still apart on the money.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  “Tell them you want a present.”

  “I don’t wear diamonds.”

  “Pick out a painting. Let them buy it for you. You pay no commission and it grows in value.”

  “When are you going to work again?” I asked.

  “Oh baby, it’s too hard for me now.”

  “Well, I’m going to send you something. It’s called Sorry, Wrong Number. It’s the old Barbara Stanwyck vehicle about a woman who’s an invalid and trapped in bed, alone in her house, when she hears a voice downstairs. It’s someone coming to kill her sent by her husband. It’s a great part for you.”

  “All my husbands wanted to kill me, baby. Would you bring me a copy and we can watch it together?”

  “I’ll send it over by messenger. Watch it and tell me what you think.”

  “Oh baby, let’s watch it together. I want to hear what you think. Nobody is offering me anything good and you have such great taste.”

  “Sure.”

  Round 6—Elizabeth.

  Barbara Stanwyck never came out of her wrapper. It didn’t get watched the night I brought it over and was never referred to again. We had a light supper and talked in the living room. She was the best pal a man could want. Warm, funny, and completely committed to whatever the subject. Her maid, happy her boss had a beau, hovered nearby, cleared the dishes, excused herself, and said good night.

  The same ritual.

  Up the stairs.

  Past the bathroom.

  To the bed.

  Water. Two pills.

  “Stay with me.�
�� Curling up close spoon fashion, I wrapped my arms around her and looked at the room I had found myself in. A woman’s bedroom. So inviting. So frightening. When she fell asleep I picked up her caftan, put it on the chair, and left.

  As I passed her bodyguard again at the top of the driveway, he said:

  “Miss Taylor is a wonderful lady. So kind to me and my family. But she’s very lonely.”

  Once down from the hills and back to my small hotel, I decided it was enough. We had had innumerable phone conversations, a dinner out, and two evenings at her house. I had resisted her suggestion that we go out to another restaurant or an event.

  “Hardly anybody asks me to their house, honey. Everybody thinks I’m busy.”

  And for the next several weeks, that’s what I was—busy.

  Round 7—Frank.

  Then began a bizarre series of phone calls with messages left to “my little angel . . .”

  As I left my hotel, the desk clerk would say:

  “Mr. Langella, Miss Taylor needs to speak with you.”

  “Take a message.”

  Coming in at night.

  “Mr. Langella, Miss Taylor has left several messages and asked me to have you call whenever you get in.”

  Friends were calling:

  “Elizabeth says you’re dating.”

  “Why aren’t you returning Elizabeth’s calls? She’s hurt.”

  “Hi, Elizabeth. It’s Frank.”

  Round 8—Elizabeth.

  I would be leaving L.A. in about ten days and decided to meet with her one last time, but on my own turf.

  “How would you like to come over to my hotel? It’s a small private one. I have a suite with a full kitchen. I’ll make us some pasta, crunchy bread, and a fattening dessert.”

  “You’re on.”

  “You’re not going to be late!”

  “Me?”

  We picked a date and about two hours before her scheduled arrival, the phone rang.

  “Miss Taylor wants to know if she should bring some Red Bull.”

  “No, I bought her some.”

  One hour prior:

  “Miss Taylor would like to know if she can bring Sugar [her dog].”

  “No!”

  Miss Taylor arrived for our eight o’clock date at precisely eight o’clock, sans Sugar.

  Round 9—Frank.

  And there in my hotel suite, in my jeans and T-shirt, cooking Elizabeth dinner with her curled up on my couch in slacks and a blouse, watching me, I had one of the most wonderful evenings I have ever spent with a woman. She was full of questions about me and listening to my answers with rapt attention. No man could possibly have asked for better. Wearing very little makeup, her hair soft and easy, her voice low and soothing, she opened up about Richard, Mike, Larry, and the gang.

  Were they stories she’d told before? Of course, but you would have never thought so. They were told with practiced skill and sincerity and even a slight wonderment, as if she were discovering something new and profound about herself right along with you.

  “Larry wanted seven million. When I got sick, he came to the hospital and took my hand. ‘I don’t want the money,’ he said. ‘Good, baby,’ I told him ‘’cause I don’t have it.’ ”

  Of Mike Todd:

  “I would love to wait till he had a room full of guys downstairs. Then I’d call out, ‘Mike, could you come up here for a minute?’ He was a bull. Never said no.”

  Of Eddie Fisher:

  “The schmuck! But he brought Debbie and me back together.”

  Of Monty Clift:

  “I got him together with Roddy [McDowall].”

  Of John Warner:

  “A nice man. But a mistake. I got so fat. We’re friends now.”

  Of Richard Burton:

  “Richard loved me.”

  And then:

  “I almost died. I was on the table. I left my body. It was all white light and I saw Mike. He said, ‘Elizabeth, it’s not time. You have to go back. You have more to do.’ ” Sincere and committed as she seemed, I had the sense it was not me she was talking to but a room full of ghosts.

  We sat at my little dining table and ate a meal of mozzarella and tomato, penne with garlic, broccoli, and olive oil and crunchy bread. The pasta was somewhat dry because I had forgotten to pour the marinara sauce on it but she ate it happily without comment. I followed it up with blueberries and vanilla ice cream for dessert, which she ate with equal enthusiasm.

  I did make one reference to her work:

  “That scene in Suddenly, Last Summer where you’re pleading with Monty to save you is one of your best,” I said.

  “Monty was so sweet with me. And George too. We shot pool at the table between takes.” She was referring, of course, to A Place in the Sun.

  After dinner, I cleaned up and she returned to the couch where I joined her. It was there she delivered her knockout punch.

  “I want to leave here,” she said, reaching for my hand. “I want to find a place that’s normal. Like a farm or a country house. Animals. No more of this shit. I’m finished. Let’s go east and look for something.”

  She was fragile, tender, and extremely vulnerable as she moved in close to me. A small, sweet woman who wanted a man to be with her, protect her, and fill a void as deep as the deepest ocean. No man could possibly stay afloat in it. I knew that when I leaned in to kiss her, but still I kissed her.

  At 4 a.m., when I closed my hotel room door and turned in the hall to take her downstairs to the garage, she pulled off her pashmina scarf and threw it over the top of my head, tossing one half over my shoulder.

  Quietly, she said, “Keep it for me, baby, I’ll pick it up next time I come over.”

  I did not respond. Like the true and valiant fighter she was, she took a step back, looked at me hard and clear, then turned and moved toward the elevator.

  When we got down to the subbasement, I said:

  “The car is up one level. You stay here and I’ll bring it down. I don’t want you walking up a ramp unnecessarily.”

  I found it, got in, started to pull down, but stopped and looked at her, standing and holding on to an iron railing, staring straight ahead, waiting to be transported by someone, anyone, somewhere, anywhere.

  On the way home she sat silently, her hand on my thigh. I got lost in the Hills and she could not help me find the house she had lived in for over thirty years. When at last I recognized the gates and pulled in, she squeezed my hand tightly but said nothing.

  I turned off the engine and we sat in silence for a long while. Then she said:

  “It’s not going to work with us, is it, baby?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d have me for lunch!”

  She laughed.

  “Keep the scarf,” she said. “I’ve only worn it once.”

  I got out and came around the car, but her bodyguard had already opened the door on her side and was helping her out. He asked for my keys.

  “I’ll be glad to turn it around for you, sir,” he said.

  The front door opened. Sugar came scampering out to greet her mistress as Elizabeth’s maid hovered in the doorway.

  I picked up the dog, put her in Elizabeth’s arms, leaned down to kiss her good night, then turned and stepped out of the ring, abandoning our insignificant bout; leaving no discernable winner. The gates opened and I drove away inhaling the pungent odor of her scarf on the seat next to me.

  A decade later Elizabeth’s magnificent violet eyes would close forever. Eyes set into a face so ravishing at birth, the rest of us could barely look away from them. Is it any wonder those eyes could not find a way of looking inward? Most everything she had amassed in a lifetime of excess would be greedily picked over, auctioned off, resold, and displayed. Had she elected, while
still alive, to pitch a tent, throw open the flaps, and begin the circus herself, it would have made her richer than ever. But not rich enough. The woman who had often said, “I can’t remember a day when I wasn’t famous,” had died fame’s inexorable victim.

  The movie queen I left standing in her driveway with a maid, a bodyguard, and a lapdog, the gates closing in front of her, was going to climb the stairs, drop her clothes on the floor, take two pills, and get into bed. It would be light soon. Her eyes growing heavy, drifting off to sleep, she would again miss the coming dawn. But no more than she would miss the pashmina scarf she had draped over my shoulders. No more than she would miss me. She would awake that afternoon continuing her indiscriminate search for the one thing she could never and would never have: Enough!

  RACHEL “BUNNY” MELLON

  “It is the blacks who have real soul. The blacks who understand what love is. All the pain they have suffered, all the indignities, has given them nobility and grace. Since I was a little girl I always looked to them for strength and warmth. I want to die in their arms on the farm in Virginia.”

  Bunny Mellon will turn 102 in 2012; and this singular woman will most likely, in the not too distant future, be granted her wish. Although she is not yet residing among the subjects of this book, I would like to share a few of my memories of her with you, and she has graciously given me permission to do so.

  She was born Rachel Lambert on August 9, 1909, to the head of the Warner/Lambert Pharmaceutical Company; one of his three children. In 1943 she married Stacy Lloyd. They divorced in 1946. Two years later she married banking heir Paul Mellon, taking her two small children, Eliza and Stacy, with her.

  Bunny’s life is privileged beyond the imagination of most people. The wealth enormous and the perks extraordinary. But despite that, she lives by this simple maxim:

  “Nothing should be noticed.”

  That this very private woman should have found herself world-famous for fifteen minutes as she approached her one-hundredth birthday is so at odds with her nature that the absurdity of it was certainly not lost, even on her.